


Walk The Line

by ClementineStarling



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: “Puppy... That's what she calls you?”





	Walk The Line

“Puppy... That's what she calls you?”

Low-Key has barely touched Laura's letter – he didn't have to, it's lying on the table, the first lines of Laura's neat handwriting plainly visible, all he had to do was turn it a little into his direction with middle and index finger of his right hand, so he'd be able to read it – but Shadow has already difficulties suppressing the urge to slam his new cellmate head first into the wall.

“I don't think it's any of your business,” he growls, snatching the letter away from Low-Key's greedy fingers.

But of course Low-Key doesn't let it go. Shadow's only known him for a couple of days but it's not like him to be deterred by a glare and a growl.

“So does she have a collar for you?” he asks. “And a leash? Does she feed you dinner in a bowl under the kitchen table? Does she call you a good boy when you eat her out?”

Shadow only realises he moved when he has already shoved Low-Key against the wall, pinning him there with his weight. He's four inches taller and a good deal heavier, but Low-Key doesn't seem in the least worried. He just smiles his smug little fox-smile and says:

“Dogs that bark don't bite.”

“Fuck you.” Shadow lets go of him. For all the urge he has to wipe that smirk off his face, he's too smart to fall for such simple provocation. The deal is to keep his head down, serve his time, get released, see Laura again. Not getting into more trouble for beating his cellmate to a pulp.

Low-Key slithers past him with an even broader grin. 

“Called it,” he says as he swaggers off.

__

 

Shadow has no idea how he does it, aggravating as he is, but somehow Low-Key manages to sneak past his defences and secure himself a place in his heart. Maybe he's just the kind of guy that grows on you. It's not as if Shadow had much chance to avoid him.

The make a good match after all. Shadow is quiet, Low-Key likes to talk. Low-Key has a sharp tongue, Shadow is a stoic. They're both good in a fight and they're both too smart to pick one. Somehow it works well enough.

Low-Key doesn't bring up the topic until a few weeks later, when they've come to know each other better, and not like the first time either. He merely starts talking about it, casually in the beginning, almost in passing, and then, when he realises Shadow doesn't mind too much, he goes into in greater detail. Past encounters, bygone loves, not so secret desires. Sex is the number one subject of conversation in prison, so it's not really that remarkable. What is remarkable though is that he doesn't press Shadow for anecdotes of his own. At least for a while.

“So what's your deal?” he asks finally, when even after hours of intimate confession on his side, Shadow still hasn't contributed one single scrap of juicy details. 

“Was I right about what I said the other day?”

Shadows doesn't have to look up from the checkers board to register his smirk, he's seen it often enough by now to picture it perfectly, that tight purse of his lips, sly though not malicious as far as he can tell. Low-Key isn't cruel by design, he's just curious and Shadow has to give him some credit for waiting so long with the question. 

“What exactly are you getting at?” Shadow asks, moving a piece on the board.

“Your wife, does she have a collar for you?”

Shadow looks up and lets him see the truth on his face, his expression open, unguarded for once.

__

 

Low-Key doesn't make any use of the information, no comment, no snide remark, no taunt. He doesn't refer to it at all until one day Shadow is trying to control the urge to beat the living hell out of an Aryan Nation guy. He is trembling with rage. Every muscle is tense, he is taut like a bow string. But he doesn't do it. 

“Prison has a way of trying to keep you in prison,” is what Low-Key says under his breath, like so many times before, too often perhaps. Shadow knows it's true but sometimes, sometimes he just wants to give in to that wordless, merciless anger, wants to smash and kill and destroy. Break every bone in that nazi's body. But now, like so many times before (and after) he grits his teeth and keeps his calm and the moment passes.

“Good boy,” Low-Key says and there's no humour in his voice and the words work their magic, simple as that. Relief washes over Shadow, laced with a touch of pride, and it's only then that he realises how much he misses it. Not just her, but _this_. 

He lowers his gaze, avoids looking Low-Key in the eye, and if only to keep up the illusion for a moment longer that this is now the nature of their relationship.

__

 

You try to give each other as much comfort as you can, in prison. You listen and you nod and sometimes you pat someone on the back. There are other arrangements too, of course, but so far Shadow hasn't felt the need for one. 

Now two words changed everything. 

And Low-Key is aware. 

One evening he stands too close to where Shadow is sitting and puts his hand on his head, just rests it there, on the side of skull, a reassuring sprawl of his fingers, and Shadow goes very, very still. It takes only the slightest bit of pressure to make him lean his head against Low-Key's side. They stay like that for a while, Low-Key's fingertips rubbing ever so gently over Shadow's scalp, long enough for Shadow to sink into this, deep, deep down. He lets himself be submerged by the touch, by the calmness of giving up control.

Something changes in Low-Key's grip on him then, almost imperceptible.

“Suck my dick, puppy,” he says, quietly, and again there's no joking note in his voice, no mischievous undertone, it's a demand that's as earnest and serious as any and Shadow should be outraged about the transgression, the sheer brazenness of it – this is something that belongs to his wife (the word, the service, his mouth) – but instead he finds himself relaxing further, as if a weight has been taken off his shoulders.

He follows the slight pressure of Low-Key's fingers, shifts his weight, turns around to him and then glances up. 

Low-Key's expression is as serious as his tone; not unkind but... determined. His eyes are dark, the constant smile on his lips reduced to a bare minimum in the corners of his mouth. He means business and that's something Shadow always found hard to resist. He knows he could just shrug if off as a joke, laugh and say something like _fuck you_ but he realises he doesn't want to.

No one could make him do anything, not without a weapon at least, it's his choice to tag along. 

“What are you waiting for?” Low-Key asks. “A written invitation?”

There's a sharpness in his voice – cold as winter air – that doesn't miss its mark. Shadow immediately snaps to attention.

“No, sir,” he says, “Sorry, sir.” 

He drops to his knees, because that's how it's done, and he wants to do it properly, be good at this since he's been granted the chance.

“May I?” he asks, raising his hands to the waistband of Low-Key's pants and Low-Key nods.

His hand still rests against his head, firm and reassuring, as Shadow pulls his pants down. At least prison clothes are easy to get out of the way, no belts, no complicated fastenings, no useless layers.

Low-Key isn't hard for him yet, which is perhaps – probably – a good thing because it means Shadow's got something to work for, something to earn. It will be a reward in itself, the heavy weight on his tongue, the swollen shaft stretching his lips, the saltiness of precum.

He goes about it like a dog would, nuzzling Low-Key's crotch, inhaling his scent for the first time. He's keeping his hands at his sides (he knows how to behave himself after all) when he sticks out his tongue to lap at his balls. A long wide swipe over the soft skin gets him a hiss out of Low-Key and when he does it again, his fingertips are pressing harder into his skull. 

He repeats the motion a couple of times, waiting for Low-Key's cock to fill with blood, which it does, quite rapidly in fact. Shadow watches it rise, careful not to bump into it with his head while he keeps licking Low-Key's balls. He goes higher up every time though, to the root, then further up the shaft, then all the way to the ridge of the head. 

Low-Key's dick is almost fully erect by now, and his breathing has become more audible too, so Shadow decides it's time to interrupt the routine and circle the head of his cock with his tongue, then lap at the rosy tip.

The fingers on Shadow's head tighten in anticipation and when he finally takes Low-Key into his mouth, a second hand joins the first, keeping his head firmly in place. So far he doesn't guide Shadow's movements but he could if he wanted to and that's what gives Shadow this nice fuzzy warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“That's my boy,” Low-Key sighs as Shadow swallows him down as far as he can. It's a matter of pride to try his best, be as good at this as possible under the circumstances, given his limited experience in sucking cock. 

Low-Key doesn't seem to mind his lack in expertise or finesse but gives a satisfied hum at Shadow's efforts. Not too much praise, but enough to put Shadow in the right mood, to open wide and fight the gag reflex, concentrate on breathing, concentrate on the rush of his blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart, the tightness in the pit of his stomach.

Pleasure is to give pleasure. That's how it's always been for him, only until now he thought it was something intrinsically connected to desiring someone, as a person more than merely a role, for _who_ and not so much for _what_ they are to him.

Now Low-Key is attractive (pretty face, breathtaking body, mind sharp as a tack), there's no question about it, but he's supposed to be a buddy, a fellow in misery, not his--

Shadow has trouble thinking the word, _Master, Master, Master_ , and yet he hasn't. It's thrumming through his veins, spelled out in every beat of his heart. Resistance is futile, there's no use fighting what you are.

“Stop thinking,” Low-Key says as if reading Shadows thoughts; he's increasing the pressure of his fingers on Shadow's skull, pulling him closer, bit by bit, not viciously but with purpose and Shadow let's him. It's good to let go of his last bit of control, just follow Low-Key's pace, keep his mouth open, breathe. His jaw is beginning to ache, his eyes water, his vision is blurry, his head spinning. 

“That's a good boy,” Low-Key says somewhere at the fringes of his consciousness, just before he comes into Shadow's mouth.

__

 

Low-Key gets him off too, later, when they've both caught their breath again and Shadow somehow has come to sit between Low-Key's legs, back against his chest, Low-Key's left hand resting against his throat, the right wrapped around his cock, moving up and down and up again. 

They don't have a collar but Low-Key's hand – strong and callused – is good enough, is better even and what's best is that he doesn't waver one bit in his sway over him, he's in full control all the time. He has no trouble holding Shadow down when he bucks into his hand, overcome by his base urges. 

Shadow's been hard for quite a while at that point and he appreciates the attention, not just the firm, long, slow strokes but also the strength and steadiness of Low-Key's touch, the way his arms fit around him, the flexing muscle and smooth, warm skin. He's hungry for this, fucking starving to be precise. It doesn't take too long until he's close, his body trembling with the effort to keep still and hold back and be good. 

His breathing has become ragged again, harsh and wet and desperate. Low-Key's left hand is pressing ever so slightly against his windpipe while he's keeping up the rhythm with his right, unfaltering, purposeful strokes, designed to wind him up, tighter and tighter, until he breaks.

Shadow gasps. He's determined not to come apart, not to let go until he's allowed to, he can bear this just like he can bear the tension of aggression. Bloodlust, arousal, pleasure, pain, it's all blurring, it all becomes one base desire that needs to be controlled.

“Look at you, how good you are at this, how well you do,” Low-Key whispers into his ear, fingers almost rough around his cock now, fingers tightening around his throat. “Such a good boy. I wonder how well you take pain. But we will find out eventually, won't we?”

Shadows arches back against Low-Key's chest, bucking into his hand, the sound he makes alien in his own ears. He's good at keeping all the emotions bottled up, all the sensations at a safe distance, but there is a limit to what he can take before something in him starts to crumble, and Low-Key is pushing at it, picking and tearing, and Shadow is so close to coming apart. The noises that escape him are increasingly desperate and less and less human, he won't be able to hold it together much longer.

His voice is a rasp when he starts to beg. “Please,” he says, and “sir” and “oh god” and Low-Key smiles against his ear and says “close enough” and makes him come with a couple of almost cruel pulls and a wicked twist of his fist, and when Shadow is spilling over his hand, hot and sticky and thankful, he whispers, “that's a fine pup” while he strokes him through it, strokes to that point where Shadow is twisting in his arms to escape the overstimulation but Low-Key holds him tight with surprising ease.

“You know what, dummy,” he says afterwards, slapping Shadow playfully on back of the head, “you could have just asked for this.”

__

 

“How are you holding up, puppy?” Laura asks him the next time they talk on the phone. She sounds a bit worried.

Shadow his rubbing his hand over the back of his head, staring at the tiles in front of him. His fingers clutch at the receiver. He puts it to the other ear before he answers. “I'm... I'm fine.” He takes a deep breath, then he says. “My cellmate is taking care of me.”

Silence. Shadow realises how his palms have grown sweaty. He feels hot. Nervous.

“I'm so happy for you, puppy,” Laura says on the other side of the line. She sounds distant but maybe that's just the connection. “It's good to know someone is looking after you.”

And Shadow simply hopes she's telling the truth because he can't let go of this, not now, not without falling apart.

.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Kinesics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10982640) by [scrapbullet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet)




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